Page 105 of The Winner's Kiss
Infantry against cavalry.
Kestrel, you fool.
She realized that she must have believed in Arin’s god. Some unexamined part of her must resolutely trust the god of death’s protection. Only that could explain why she had set Arin against the Valorian vanguard—and her father—with any hope of survival.
Dread worked its way up her throat.
In the initial crush, Arin lost sight of the general. An officer’s horse nearly trampled Arin, who dodged the reared front hooves. He caught a blow from the Valorian’s sword; its edge lodged harmlessly in the shoulder of Arin’s hardened leather armor. As the man tugged it free, Arin snatched the reins from the man’s hand and dragged the horse’s head down, heard it scream. The Valorian struggled to keep his seat. Arin buried the point of his sword into the man’s side above his hip, just below the low border of the metal cuirass. Arin pushed.
An inhuman sound. Blood channeled down the blade. Arin’s hand was warm and wet.
The Valorian started to slide from his saddle. His foot caught in the stirrup. The greave of his leg armor raked the horse’s side and the animal reared again, nearly dislocating Arin’s arm from his shoulder. He released the reins. The Valorian thumped to the ground. The horse plunged, ran wild, dragging the soldier behind him.
Arin couldn’t think. He knew, vaguely, that enemy archers weren’t firing on his company, prob ably for fear of hitting the Valorian vanguard. He knew that his own soldiers were falling around him. The Valorians, instead of pulling forward to meet the attack, stood their ground and grew more compact, a wall of metal and horses.
Those stallions. The gorgeous brawn of them. High and huge.
Arin shouted in Dacran, then in his own tongue: With me.
He drew his dagger. A blade in each hand, he ducked into the narrow space between two Valorian war horses and sliced open their necks.
Kestrel clenched the spyglass. The Valorian officers didn’t advance, didn’t separate from the middle ranks, didn’t expose the supply wagons.
A war horse stumbled. Then another.
Her father hacked his sword down. It rose up red. She saw him shout.
“Cut the ropes,” Kestrel told her gunners. “Now.”
Arin wanted to cry out. He saw an eastern woman slip past the Valorian defenses, hamstring a war horse, and reach the general. Arin wanted to say No, he wanted to say Mine.
The general, steady on his steady horse, swung. He cut the woman’s head from her neck. Blood jetted.
“Hold formation!” the man shouted.
The rest of the general’s commands echoed in Arin’s ears as he blocked the downswing of a horsed Valorian’s blade. Rearguard, close ranks.
Arin’s sword arm ached.
Archers, eyes on the hills. Cannons, at the ready.
He dropped the dagger from his left hand, hooked his free fingers into the Valorian’s leg armor at the upper thigh, and yanked.
Flankers, defend.
The Valorian toppled from his horse.
Sword into the fallen man’s throat. A gurgling cry.
The general wasn’t fooled. He’d guessed this was no little skirmish. He held his vanguard back and let Arin’s company come in order to tighten ranks in defense against a larger attack.
A horse shifted. A path opened between Arin and the general.
Ah, yes, murmured Arin’s god.
Then a rough, tumbling crash roared over the sounds of war. Arin almost didn’t know what it meant until a crack broke the air.
The trees groaned, tipped forward, and thudded down. Most lay where they fell, but a few slid down the hill toward the road. They gathered speed, slammed into boulders or the trunks of other trees. Some speared down: leafy tops first, stopped by nothing or shunted by an obstacle into a diagonal roll that spun them off the hill and onto the Valorian army’s left flank. The trees crushed men and women, cut a swath into the middle ranks.
